


your sickening desire

by iwasfollowingyou



Series: kiss me on the mouth and set me free [1]
Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: (very minor but it's there for half a second), Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode Related, Episode s01e8: Prague, First Time, Homophobic Language, Hook-Up, Implied Sexual Content, Insecurity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Morning After, Pining, Roman Roy is Gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:40:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24274462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwasfollowingyou/pseuds/iwasfollowingyou
Summary: “What happens if I say yes?”The question takes a second to register. Stewy tilts his head. “I—well, whatever fucking happens when someone usually says ‘Let’s get out of here’?”
Relationships: Stewy Hosseini/Roman "Romulus" Roy
Series: kiss me on the mouth and set me free [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1775047
Comments: 7
Kudos: 42





	your sickening desire

**Author's Note:**

> i rewatched prague and absolutely lost my mind because of the way stewy looks at roman. title is from "bite" by troye sivan

He’s not actually much one for parties like this. He likes the drugs and the alcohol. He doesn’t like the bodies. He doesn’t like strangers pushing up against him. He doesn’t like people coming up to him as if they’re going to get something out of the interaction. He doesn’t like making small talk with people he’s never met and is never going to see ever again. He doesn’t like the constant pounding of bass or the headache it causes. 

But he keeps coming back anyway. To torture himself, maybe? To remind himself why he hates them? This time, to make sure Kendall is properly coked up before he tries striking a business deal? To ensure that Roman and Tom Wambsgans and that weird tall kid that’s been hanging around are in as awkward a situation as possible? Stewy wouldn’t call himself a sadist, but he does like watching them squirm.

He lost sight of all of them immediately after coming inside. He doesn’t care enough to really bother looking for them. When they need him, they’ll find him. It’s annoying, almost, how easily they all manage to track him down in a sea of hundreds of people.

“You gotta get into PR,” he’s saying, “because that’s where the real fucking money is.” The girl he’s talking to isn’t paying attention to a single word. He can tell that she checked out five minutes ago, but he can’t seem to get himself to stop rambling. At least if he’s talking to her, he doesn’t have to talk to anyone else.

There’s a hand on his arm. He tries to brush it off, but it stays. He turns around and has to suppress an eyeroll.

“What?” he asks shortly.

Roman glares at him. He starts speaking, but Stewy tunes out his voice. The guy’s like an annoying fucking Chihuahua, always coming back to nip at Stewy’s ankles. Stewy needs Roman to leave him alone for just ten fucking minutes. If Roman wouldn’t immediately sue him for assault and battery, Stewy would love to shove his head into a wall. Maybe that would finally shut him up.

He turns back to his conversation, but Roman isn’t having it. Stewy isn’t nearly high enough for this.

“Uh-huh,” he says with mock interest. “Ro-Ro, can you just be fucking cool, man?”

He’s pretty sure he imagines Roman flinching at the nickname. His ears are buzzing, and Roman’s presence isn’t exactly helping. He looks anxious—no more than he usually does, but still, it’s noticeable.

“Hey!” Roman snaps. “Fuck you.”

“Oh my fucking God,” Stewy mutters under his breath. He turns back to face Roman, ready to tell him to fuck off, but the words die on his lips.

He’s not fucking high enough for this. He closes his eyes for a second, but Roman is still there when he opens them again. Stewy has to look down at him. He tries not to think about the fact that he has to look down at him. He wants to force Roman up to his level. He wants someone to get Roman a fucking box to stand on or something so that Stewy can look him in the eye without being aware of how much shorter Roman is, of how easy it would be to push him around. He wants to shove Roman into a wall. He wants Roman to shut up.

“I’m not, like, your little pet that you get to kick around.”

 _Oh, that’s cute,_ Stewy catches himself thinking. _He thinks he’s tough._

“Bro—”

“You think that I can’t make your life difficult, but word in the right ear, and I can be your migraine, motherfucker.”

 _As if you aren’t already._ He can’t make himself say it. For some reason, his mouth has gone dry. His mind is completely blank. He probably needs to cool it on the alcohol. It’s muddling his thoughts, making him think things that he really should not think. He glances down at the drink in his hand and swirls it around. 

“Are you even fucking listening to me?”

“Huh?” Stewy shakes his head quickly. “Uh-huh. Yeah. Hear you loud and clear.”

“Prick,” Roman mutters. 

He keeps talking, but it all just sounds like rushing air. Roman’s words merge together with the music playing in the background and the conversations happening around them. He knows Roman is speaking, can see his lips moving, but it doesn’t register, like he has earplugs in and Roman is screaming at him from across the room. 

His eyes trail down from Roman’s mouth to his neck. The top button of his shirt is undone. The fabric is tight against his chest. His stupid fucking tight ass shirts. Stewy needs to teach him how to buy clothes that actually fit. His pants are too tight, too. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows—whether as a fashion statement or because it’s hot, Stewy can’t tell. He can see Roman’s veins beneath his skin.

Roman’s mouth is closed when Stewy’s gaze finally makes it back up to his face. His eyes are dark—stormy, he thinks the poets would say.

“You wanna get out of here?” he hears himself ask.

Roman mouth freezes halfway open. He blinks rapidly, then tilts his head and fixes Stewy with an icy glare.

“What the fuck?”

Stewy’s mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton. He tries to swallow, but his throat muscles don’t seem to want to obey. His heart is pounding in time to the music. The bass pumps through his chest. In the corner of his eye, strobe lights are flashing.

“Fuck off,” Roman snaps. “You fucking prick, listen to—”

“I’m—no, I’m—let me—” Stewy fumbles the words as they come to his lips. “Let’s get out of here. Seriously.”

Roman is searching his expression, and Stewy can tell he’s trying to figure out whether or not he’s being fucked with. Stewy does his best to keep his gaze steady. He focuses on Roman’s eyes—his stupid brown eyes, his pupils blown wide, and Stewy wants to see what his eyes look like with Stewy’s hands on him.

“Would you—I’m not in the mood to be jerked around, asshole.” Roman’s voice is quieter than it was before. Stewy has to strain to hear. He leans in closer, but Roman doesn’t back off. “I don’t need to put up with this bullshit. If you could just fucking—”

“Let me get you out of here,” Stewy proposes. One last attempt, he tells himself. When Roman says no, he can blame it on his state of mind, on the drugs, on the party. Plausible deniability. Like it never even happened. Like he mistook Roman for someone else.

There’s an unbearable stretch of silence. Roman swallows. His eyes flick back and forth. There’s a bead of sweat on his hairline, another trailing down his neck. Stewy pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and stares. He stares, because he can’t force himself to drag his eyes away. Roman swallows. His jaw is clenched. His expression is guarded.

“What happens if I say yes?”

The question takes a second to register. Stewy tilts his head. “I—well, whatever fucking happens when someone usually says ‘Let’s get out of here’?”

“I—” Roman looks around. “Fine.”

It’s not a no. Stewy blinks in surprise. “Fine?”

“Can you—” Roman’s tone is still hostile. He takes a half step away from Stewy, bringing his arms in over his chest. Stewy keeps staring. “Are we going, or not? I don’t have all fucking night.”

 _Walk,_ Stewy commands himself.

“Okay. Yeah. Fuck. Okay.”

“Jesus,” Roman mutters.

Stewy turns away and starts weaving his way to the exit. The building is a labyrinth, every room seeming to lead into six others, random hallways and alcoves and doors that lead back to the same room they come out of. He doesn’t look back at Roman as they walk, but he can feel him hovering behind his left shoulder. It feels like it takes two hours to finally make it outside.

Roman is still behind him. It feels as if he’s standing in front of a nuclear reactor—like it’s dangerous to look, like if he dares to turn around, he’ll be hit with a blast of radiation strong enough to disintegrate him. He doesn’t turn around.

It’s dark outside. The wind whips into his face, shocking him out of the trance he’s in. There are cars lined up along the alleyway, drivers napping at the wheel. Roman steps into his peripheral vision, his shoulders hunched against the cold.

Stewy’s mouth is still dry. His hands are shaking. Roman’s presence is suffocating. Stewy fishes a cigarette out of his jacket pocket. The lighter sputters sparks a few times before igniting. He closes his eyes as he takes a drag. The taste and smell are calming, and his heartbeat steadies to a more normal rhythm. He blows the smoke out at the same time that Roman exhales. The smoke and steam mingle together as they drift up towards the streetlight.

This is actually happening. He thinks. It could all be a hallucination, and he wouldn’t be surprised if it was, but then Roman’s shoulder bumps against his, and Stewy comes crashing back down.

His driver is waiting at the intersection. Stewy slides into the backseat. Roman sits, every muscle tensed, two feet away from him.

Buildings flash by outside the window. Besides the streetlights, everything is dark. Everything around here is either abandoned or barely in use. Strobe lights are still flashing across Stewy’s vision. His ears are still ringing.

The drive back into the city isn’t that long, but every mile seems to stretch into five. Neither of them speaks. Stewy’s skin is thrumming with electricity. He thinks if he touches Roman, it’ll shock them both. He wants to test the theory. He doesn’t. The space between them remains unbreached. 

The elevator is silent. Stewy dares to steal a glance at Roman. Roman’s jaw is clenched, his cheek twitching. Stewy wants to shove him into the wall. Roman doesn’t look at him.

Roman still doesn’t speak as they walk into the dark apartment. Stewy pauses in the living room and looks back at him. Finally, Roman meets his eyes, and—Stewy must be imagining it—he almost looks _scared_. Stewy takes a cautious step towards him.

“Roman, we don’t—” he starts. “I mean, if you don’t want—”

“Fuck you,” Roman says, voice quiet. “I—fuck. No, I—” He shakes his head. “I didn’t come all this fucking way for nothing. Get over here, douchebag.”

Stewy obeys. The distance between them shrinks until he stands a foot away from Roman. Roman looks up at him, then drops his gaze. His fists are clenched by his sides. Stewy reaches out and carefully lifts Roman’s chin.

“Yeah?”

Roman nods. Stewy takes one more step forward and kisses him.

He isn’t sure what he expects to happen. An explosion? Fireworks, maybe, like in the movies? Roman to slap him?

Nothing spectacular happens. Roman’s lips are warm against his. He tastes like alcohol and cigarette smoke. He’s tense, hesitant, but he’s kissing Stewy back. Stewy slides his hand around and cups the back of Roman’s neck. Slowly, Roman’s hands come up to hold onto Stewy’s jacket. He’s shaking.

Stewy tries to pull away, but Roman’s grip tightens, pulling him back in. Stewy settles one hand on Roman’s hip, his thumb brushing over the fabric. He thinks he feels Roman shiver.

Roman lets him go a moment later. His eyes are still closed. Stewy presses a light kiss to the corner of Roman’s mouth, then one beneath his ear, then one on his jaw.

“Roman,” he murmurs. Roman nods. “My room?” Another nod.

He lets Stewy guide him down the hallway. When Stewy reaches for the light switch, Roman shakes his head quickly.

He pulls Roman back in and kisses him. This time, Roman responds—suddenly, his kisses are rough, his hands grabbing onto Stewy’s clothes like he wants to tear them. His teeth bump against Stewy’s lip, and Stewy winces. He holds onto Roman’s hips and pulls him in, pressing his body to Roman’s, trying to hold him still. He can feel Roman’s heartbeat.

Stewy pulls Roman’s bottom lip between his teeth, and Roman gasps softly. Stewy smiles into this kiss. Roman is pushing himself even closer to Stewy, as if the contact isn’t enough. The way he’s grabbing onto Stewy, Stewy doesn’t think it could ever be enough.

Roman tugs at his jacket, and Stewy steps away to shrug it off and drop it on the floor. Roman’s eyes trail up and down his torso. His cheeks are flushed red. There’s a strand of hair falling over his eyes. He’s biting his lip so hard the skin is white.

Roman Roy is standing in front of him, and Stewy almost laughs.

Roman Roy is standing in front of him, his eyes traveling over Stewy’s body, and Stewy, fully clothed, suddenly feels more naked than he’s ever felt in his entire life. He swallows, takes a breath, forces himself to remember how to exhale.

His voice is quiet when he says, “Roman.”

Roman’s eyes flick up to meet his. His lips are slightly parted and bright red, and Stewy wants to grab onto him and kiss him and kiss him again.

Again: “Roman,” like he’s whispering a prayer, like he’s laying himself bare and begging God to come and save him.

This time, Roman kisses him.

This time, there’s an explosion behind Stewy’s eyelids, and another one inside his chest, and he’s worried that his heart has stopped beating because suddenly time is standing still, and the only thing he’s aware of is Roman’s mouth against his and Roman’s body flush against his own.

Roman’s hands wrap around the back of his neck, his fingers tangling in Stewy’s hair. He pulls Stewy down closer. Stewy lets him. He holds Roman’s jaw in his hands and brushes his thumb over Roman’s cheek. Roman’s skin is warm, his slight stubble rough under Stewy’s touch.

Kissing Roman is nothing like Stewy ever expected. He’s settled down slightly, but his kisses are still rough, like he isn’t quite sure how to do it right, almost like he’s a teenager and this is his first kiss and he’s so desperate that it feels like he’ll never get a chance for another one. Stewy never wants to stop kissing him. He wants to kiss him until Roman gets the hang of it, until Roman calms down and lets Stewy guide him. He wants to kiss Roman until their lips are sore and bruised, and then he wants to kiss Roman again.

He reaches down for the top button on Roman’s shirt. Roman stiffens and hits Stewy’s hands away, stumbling a few steps backwards as he does. Stewy takes a step back and holds his hands up. 

Roman’s chest is heaving. He grabs the collar of his shirt and pulls it tight around his neck. His eyes dart around the room as if he’s expecting something to leap out and attack him.

“Roman,” Stewy tries after a moment. When he steps towards him, Roman takes a step back. “Hey,” Stewy says gently. He takes another step, and Roman stays rooted in the same place. “You okay?”

“Don’t—” Roman’s voice is choked. He’s still gripping onto his shirt, knuckles white around the fabric.

“Okay. Okay.” Stewy gently grabs Roman’s wrists. Roman releases the shirt, and Stewy guides his hands down. “I got it. Got it.” 

Roman takes a deep, shaky breath. His voice is small when he says, “Okay.”

“Okay.” He lets go of Roman’s wrists and settles his hands on his hips instead. Roman doesn’t move as Stewy leans back in and presses his lips to his neck. His breath is warm against Stewy’s ear. “Rome,” Stewy whispers against his skin.

He slowly, carefully lifts Roman’s shirt, just enough to get it untucked. He slides his hands around to the small of Roman’s back and pulls him closer. Roman’s shoulders relax a miniscule amount, and he tilts his head as Stewy returns to kissing down his neck. His skin tastes like sweat. Stewy can feel his pulse underneath his lips.

Roman’s hands are on Stewy’s biceps. Stewy presses a kiss to the hollow of Roman’s throat, and Roman gasps softly, his fingernails dig into his skin.

Stewy gently pushes him back until Roman’s legs hit the edge of the mattress. He sits down, and Stewy follows the movement to kiss him again. Roman’s lips are gentle when he returns the pressure. Stewy pulls away, then kisses him again, then steps back. Roman stares up at him as he tugs his shirt over his head and tosses it to the side.

“Okay?” Stewy asks. He nudges his knee against Roman’s, and Roman spreads his legs enough for Stewy to stand between them. Roman reaches up and grabs Stewy’s shoulders, pulling him back in. “Rome—”

“Stop fucking talking.”

“Okay,” Stewy says quickly. “I can do that.” He pushes Roman onto his back and follows him down, pressing his lips to Roman’s again.

* * *

Roman is lying next to him. Their synced breaths are the only sound in the otherwise silent room. Stewy’s heart is pounding in his chest. There’s a headache forming behind his eyes. His throat is burning like he just did a shot of straight vodka. There’s a smile on his lips.

He waits until he’s managed to catch his breath before cautiously saying, “Roman?”

“What?” comes the quiet voice from the other side of the mattress.

“You good?”

There’s a beat of silence before Roman answers, “Yeah.”

Stewy lets out a sigh of relief and runs his fingers through his hair, wincing at how gross it feels. For a second, he considers taking a shower, but he doesn’t want to leave Roman alone in the bed. He wants to stay right here. He wants to pretend that this bed, this room, is the only place in the universe. He wants to pretend that he and Roman are somebody else. He wants to know what Roman wants. He wants Roman to look at him, to say _something_ , to offer him more than a single syllable, even to curse him out and tell him how terrible this was and how much he despises him.

He clears his throat. “If you—if you, like, want to borrow a shirt or something—”

“Fuck you.” The sheets rustle as Roman rolls onto his back. “Yeah, okay.”

Stewy forces himself to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cool beneath his feet as he walks over to his dresser and fishes out a t-shirt. It’s old and worn-out, one of the shirts he only ever wears as a bottom layer when he goes jogging, but it’s comfortable. He tosses it to Roman, who mutters what might be a “Thank you.”

He opens his mouth to say something else, then thinks better of it. Instead, he walks out of the room to let Roman change, closing the door quietly behind him.

The apartment is dark, but he doesn’t bother turning on the lights. He pours himself a glass of water and chugs it, then catches his breath as he fills it up again. His shoulders are sore, and his neck and biceps sting where Roman’s fingernails and teeth had been.

 _I just fucked Roman Roy,_ he thinks, then laughs breathlessly to himself.

After he finishes off the second glass of water, he fills another and brings it back into the bedroom. Roman is lying on his side in bed, Stewy’s t-shirt on. Stewy clears his throat.

“I brought you some water.”

Roman sits up, accepting the glass. He winces slightly as if in pain, but the look fades as quickly as it appeared. The t-shirt is slightly loose on him. Stewy wants to push him back down onto the bed and press his mouth against Roman’s collarbones, against the hollow of his throat and the spot where his neck meets his shoulder, the spot that made Roman gasp when Stewy sank his teeth into it.

He rubs the back of his neck, opens his mouth, then closes it. There’s nothing he can say that won’t make the situation worse. If he can preserve it as it is for even a second longer, it will be enough.

Carefully, he slides back into bed. Roman sets the glass down and rolls back onto his side. His weight on the mattress is strange. He can hear Roman breathing, quiet and steady and slow. It’s strange. It’s somehow familiar at the same time.

He brushes his fingertips over his collarbone. He’s pretty sure there are bite marks. Usually, Stewy would have pushed him away and snapped about leaving bruises. He hadn’t stopped Roman.

Roman Roy is in his bed. Roman Roy is wearing his clothes and sleeping in his bed. It’s all so fucking ridiculous, Stewy has to hold in another laugh. He looks over to the side. Roman is asleep—or at least he’s really good at pretending to be asleep. Stewy resists the urge to wrap an arm around Roman’s waist and pull him back into his chest. He knows Roman would never forgive him.

He rubs his eyes, then rolls away from Roman and tries not to think about any of it. It’s weird, but it’s not, and Stewy feels like the universe is going to have a punishment for him. Something like this doesn’t happen without a tradeoff. But whatever the consequences of this are going to be, he can deal with them in the morning.

* * *

His head is still sore when he wakes up. He drags his hands down his face with a soft groan, then forces his eyes open. Daylight is coming in through the curtains. He grabs his phone to check the time and spends a minute scrolling through notifications—a missed call from Sandy and a barrage of texts, five missed calls, and two voicemails from Kendall. 

_Yeah, sorry about last night,_ he imagines telling Kendall. _Missed your messages. Was a bit busy fucking your brother. My bad! Won’t happen again._

He groans again and puts his phone down without sending a response.

He’s surprised to see Roman still in bed next to him—curled up in a tight ball with his back to Stewy, just a lump beneath the sheets. Stewy waits for a moment to make sure that Roman is still breathing, and is somewhat relieved when he sees Roman’s torso moving up and down under the blankets. Stewy carefully extracts himself from under the sheets.

His reflection stares back at him from the bathroom mirror. He doesn’t look as bad as he thought he would—besides the circles under his eyes, he looks nearly presentable. His gaze drops lower.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, tilting his head to the side. There are bruises up and down his neck and scattered across his collarbones. He pokes at one at the junction of his neck and shoulder. “Jesus fucking Christ, Roman.” The guy’s a goddamn vampire. Stewy hasn’t been this covered with hickeys since he was in college.

He brushes his teeth and fixes his hair, then grabs a sweatshirt from his closet and pulls it over his head as he walks to the kitchen.

The morning feels shockingly normal. There’s no hellfire raining down from the sky. As far as he can tell, the world didn’t end overnight. Then again, if the Rapture did happen, he knows neither his soul nor Roman’s would have been saved.

Roman emerges from the bedroom just as Stewy’s coffee finishes brewing. He’s already fully dressed, shirt from the night before buttoned up and smoothed out as much as possible. There are a few marks along his jaw, but they won’t last. Stewy almost wishes they would.

“Morning,” Stewy greets him cheerfully. Roman shoots him a glare. Stewy blows across the top of his mug. “Coffee?”

“I’m good.” 

Roman glances around the kitchen. He still looks like he hasn’t slept. His hair is a complete mess, but Stewy would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little into the whole disheveled look. He forces himself to look away and takes a sip of his coffee.

“Am I gonna get that fucking meeting?” 

“Huh?” Stewy furrows his eyebrows.

“Sandy.”

Stewy laughs, but Roman isn’t smiling. “Roman, what the fuck are you talking—”

“Oh, fuck you,” Roman snaps. “I don’t know what you thought you were getting out of this, but I need a fucking meeting, prick.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Jesus.” He sets his mug down on the island. “Why do you even need to see him so badly, dude?”

“I have—look, I have some ideas, alright? I just need to talk to the fucking guy.”

Stewy closes his eyes for a second and takes a breath. “Alright. Fuck, man. I’ll get him to talk to you.”

“Good.” Roman looks around again. “And, just so you know, this wasn’t, like—this was a one-time thing.” 

It would have stung if he hadn’t been expecting it. Stewy lifts his coffee back up to his mouth and quirks an eyebrow “Sure.”

“In fact, it didn’t even fucking happen.”

“Well, it did.” Stewy pulls the collar of his sweatshirt down. Roman makes a face.

“I’m not—this isn’t—” Roman clears his throat. “I’m not a fucking queer, alright? You can—whatever. Fuck you. Be a goddamn fudgepacker for all I—”

Stewy snorts into his coffee. “ _Fudgepacker?_ Oh my God, dude. You need some better insults.” He smiles sarcastically and shakes his head. “You have to be more creative than that, come on. Hit me with something better.”

He’s been called worse things since he was a teenager. It doesn’t mean anything coming from Roman—in fact, it was Roman who called him worse things back when they were teenagers. Stewy had been pretty sure he knew what was going on back then. He knows he knows what’s going on now.

“Fuck you,” Roman says again. “I’m not—that’s not—this isn’t—”

“ _I’m not—that’s not—_ ” Stewy mocks. “Okay, man. Sure. I believe you.”

Roman clenches his fists at his sides, his shoulders tensed. Stewy meets his gaze evenly. 

“I’m not ashamed of it, Roman.” He shrugs. “I don’t care what the fuck you are—or aren’t,” he adds when Roman opens his mouth. He doesn’t care what Roman is. He doesn't care whether Roman acknowledges it or not. It’s not his job to make Roman comfortable with himself. It’s not his job to be Roman’s gay awakening. Roman can think and do whatever the fuck he likes. “So, fine. One-time thing. Whatever you want. We can act like it never even happened.”

“I was drunk.”

Stewy raises an eyebrow. “Sure. And?”

“And I was _drunk_ , Stewy.” He’s more nervous than angry—as well as he hides it, Stewy can tell. “This wasn’t a fucking—I wasn’t—I don’t know what was up with me last night, okay? I was drunk. I was pissed off. You—”

“So was I.”

It’s the truth, but it's not like it matters. He might have been drunk, but he knew exactly what he was doing. He’s pretty sure Roman knows, too. 

“Roman, you’re not, like…” Stewy winces. “Are you, like, fucking accusing me of something? Because—”

“No! Jesus.” Roman shakes his head. “I’m not—no. I’m not fucking…” He runs a hand through his hair. “You didn’t—you didn’t do anything _wrong_. You didn’t fucking take advantage of me or—Jesus Christ. I don’t think you’re that much of a prick.”

Stewy lets out a sigh of relief. “Okay.”

“I’m just saying I wasn’t in my right mind, okay? That’s not—I’m not like that.”

“I know,” he concedes. It’s easier than fighting back. 

Stewy looks down at his coffee. There are about a thousand things he wants to say— _But you are like that. But it did happen. But it did happen, and we both know it. But I want it to happen again._ He says none of them.

“It actually is better for me if no one ever finds out.” He’s not sure he would ever be able to get over it. He’d never be able to strike a deal with Waystar, that’s for damn sure. “We’re not—I’m not about to run around telling people that I screwed the boss’ son.”

“Fuck you.” 

“This was just for fun, Rome. It doesn’t have to—it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Good. We’re on the same page, then.”

He pulls the collar of his sweatshirt down and absentmindedly rubs his thumb over one of the bruises on his neck. He can feel Roman’s eyes on him.

It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t, he reminds himself. It only means something if they decide it means something. They can both move on, pretend it never happened. Stewy can keep going about his life, acting completely normal, acting like he isn’t constantly thinking of Roman’s hands and Roman’s lips and the soft noises that Roman makes when Stewy touches him. He’s been acting like Roman doesn’t affect him for God knows how long now. It’s become second nature, really, the front he puts up around other people. He’s not gay. He doesn’t get attached to other people. He doesn’t have relationships because he cares more about money than about finding someone. He doesn’t have feelings for Roman goddamn Roy.

At least he can say the experiment didn’t work. Sleeping with Roman didn’t make the feelings go away. Sleeping with Roman didn’t make Roman return the feelings. The experiment failed, and Stewy can go back to his normal life and act like nothing happened.

“Sure you don’t want coffee?” he asks.

“Very fucking sure.” Roman clears his throat. “Okay, well.”

“Okay?”

“Fuck you.”

“Always a charmer, Ro-Ro.”

Roman glares and shifts his weight awkwardly. “So. I guess I’ll see you.”

“Sure.”

“Okay.”

“Bye, Rome,” he says pointedly.

Roman looks like he might want to say something else, but he doesn’t. He nods and turns away. A moment later, the door closes behind him.

Stewy sets his mug down and drops his head into his hands.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

All he wanted to do was shut Roman up. All he wanted to do was get his goddamn frustration out so that he could get over it. He should’ve just shoved him into a wall. Lawsuits be damned. He should’ve shoved Roman into a wall and told him to fuck off and never spoken to him ever again. 

“Fucking idiot,” he tells himself.

He mutters a few more curses under his breath. This fucking family. Stewy would’ve been better off if he had never met any of them. He wishes he could hate them. He does hate them. He wishes he could hate Kendall and Roman in the right way. He wishes he could make himself not care about Kendall. He wishes he could make himself despise Roman the way Roman despises him. He wishes he wasn’t such a coward.

His phone is almost dead. He plugs it in and scrolls through his messages again. He starts typing out a text to Sandy, then deletes it. He starts typing out a message to Kendall. He almost hits send. He doesn’t. His thumb hovers over Roman’s name. 

He locks the phone and puts it down, then falls onto his back on his bed and stares up at the ceiling. His thoughts are racing around his head like the fucking Indy 500, moving too quickly for him to grab onto them and force them into coherent sentences. His head hurts. He needs a shower. He needs to take a long, hot shower and scrub himself clean of what happened last night. He needs to forget. He needs to pretend it didn’t happen. He needs to remind himself that it’s over. It was a one-time thing, and Roman is never going to want to look at him ever again.

The water burns his skin, but he doesn’t turn the temperature down. He stands beneath the spray and stares at the wall and forces out all of his thoughts about Roman, as if they can be washed down the drain just like everything else.

There’s a text waiting for him when he gets out of the shower.

From Kendall: _what the fuck happened last night?_

Stewy groans and drops the phone. He takes a deep breath, then finds a quarter in the pocket of his jacket from last night. He’s not sure where it came from. He doesn’t really care.

Heads, he’ll text Kendall. Tails, he’ll text Roman.

He flips it.

It lands heads.

He texts Roman.

_So when do I get to see you again?_

The reply is nearly instantaneous. _fuck off_

Then, thirty seconds later: _i’m free next weekend._

Stewy catches himself smiling. _Drinks?_

_as long as you’re buying_

_It’s a date._

_don’t push ur luck_

The three dots pop up again, then disappear. No other message comes. Stewy stares at the screen for a moment longer, then locks his phone and sets it to the side. He falls back onto the bed, smiling in spite of himself. He rubs his temples and laughs.

“One-time thing my ass,” he says out loud.

He’s not going to get his hopes up. But he lets himself think, just for a moment, that if this is going to be a thing, he wouldn’t mind putting up with Roman’s annoying ass for a little while longer. Maybe he’s going to get something out of this Waystar deal after all.

**Author's Note:**

> have i become too invested in these two terrible people? yes, yes i have. leave kudos and comments if you enjoyed and follow me on tumblr @vaguelyprophetic


End file.
